Imperfection
by kl999
Summary: She found the deadly flaws the most beautiful.


**Not mine.**

He was clean-cut.

His clothes always matched. There was never a wrinkle in his shirts, his shoes always had a faint shine to them, and he kept a bit of neatly trimmed facial hair that looked _so good_ on him. It gave the perfect amount of tickle when she kissed him. His hair was blond and always neatly styled in a way that suggested he woke straight out of bed looking like that. Casey knew, though, that he spent a good amount of time to make it that way. He cared what he looked like.

He was rough.

His clothes _never_ matched. His outfits looked like he threw them together from clothes he found on his floor, and she knew for a fact that that was exactly what he did. He could wear the same pair of jeans for a week and not notice. Clothes were just obligations that were required when he left the house, nothing more. He often forgot (or just got too lazy) to shave, so the stubble grew thick and dark over his face. Sometimes he smelled from practice. He never did his hair. She was pretty sure he would drop dead if someone suggested he "do his hair".

He had a bright future.

He had a promising job at an up-and-coming law firm in the city. He was rising quickly, and looked to be a star attorney in the future. He worked hard to be the best, and rarely set aside time for frivolity. He knew a lot of important people, and she knew they could help her, too, if she stuck with him. Together, they could go far, because he wasn't willing to rise without her.

He lived in the present.

He rarely worried about trivial things like "the future", and spent most of his time playing. He chased skirts, he drank, he partied with his friends. He had natural talent, which kept him afloat, but almost no concept of how to work hard. He had an extreme amount of charisma, which kept him from being fired when his antics became too much. He could work his boss, his coach in his hands like putty. His life was completely easy, fun and games. He didn't care where she went, as long as he had money to spend.

He was a gentleman.

He opened doors for her, he paid for dinner, he comforted her when she was sad. Chivalry was never so in. He didn't interrupt, he wasn't rude, he didn't call her ugly names when they fought. In fact, they didn't fight. They discussed. He would rationally hear her side of the story before presenting his. Most of their problems worked themselves out. There was rarely any friction between the two.

He was a cad.

He fought with her all the time. She wasn't sure if he just liked getting a rise out of her or he honestly thought she was wrong that much. And even when she was tired, he'd still pick a fight. He could ruin her whole day with a sentence. He called to bum money off her, frequently. Friction couldn't even begin to explain the heat between the two.

He showered her with attention.

When he had extra money, he spent it on her. He loved to give her gifts, to see her face when she received something she hadn't been expecting. He loved to kiss her. In front of other guys, in front of her friends, anywhere. Big, romantic gestures were his thing. He asked her out by singing a song to her over the loudspeaker during a college football game. His father was the dean, and he had some strings pulled. Valentine's Days were filled with huge bouquets of the most exquisite roses, expensive Belgian chocolates, and Parisian lingerie. He told her he wanted to give her the world. It felt like he had.

He gave her nothing but a headache.

The last Christmas present she received from him had been socks. They were gray, itchy, and woolen. She threw them away as soon as she opened the box. There had been no card, and no wrapping paper. When they ran into each other in town, he ignored her if he was with a girl.

He was hers, and he was perfect.

He was hers, not by choice.

But sometimes, she lays awake and night and wonders if she made the right choice, so many years ago. If she's with the right person. But he's perfect, her mother's and friend's and everyone's voices echo in her head. So she rolls over, snuggles closer to his _perfectness_, and goes back to sleep. She's usually asleep in moments, but sometimes she can't help the tears from falling silently down.

She remembers the fights. The screaming until she was hoarse. The crying. The throwing pieces of the house at each other. She remembers the hateful words they said to each other. She remembers all the times she's slapped him, hard. He deserved it every time.

She remembers the passion. She felt like a teenager again. They could barely keep their hands off each other. Involuntarily, she blushes. She remembers the emotion. She hasn't felt _anything_ that strong in years. How the way she felt could make her weak in the heart, force her to sit down, drink a glass of water, put her head between her knees and count to ten. Just the mere thought of his face could inspire a novel.

It was almost too much. She'd be alone, and the past would hit her like a train barreling out of control. She wasn't sure how things had worked out the way they did. She was with a man as flawless as a diamond, yet she wished for the jagged, imperfect quartz that had ripped her open and broken her heart.


End file.
